


Sweet Surprises

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29457063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: In an attempt to express his feelings, Zacharias Barnham attempts to craft the perfect Valentine's Day gift. Does he finally have the skills he needs to succeed, or will his second verse be same as the first?
Relationships: Zacharias Barnham/Eve Belduke
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Sweet Surprises

“Three roses, please.”

The flower seller’s shop was balmy compared to the damp, frigid winter just outside the glass door. However, the sticky warmth wasn’t the reason Barnham found his hair plastered against the back of his neck. The majority of his perspiration came from the steady gaze being directed at him over the plated rims of Ms. Kira’s glasses. The young woman had seen sit to glare at him from the moment he entered the shop, and though he could not necessarily blame her—he had executed her as a witch, after all—it did make his current task all the more difficult.

“Three roses,” Kira mused, taking the beautiful flowers by their long stems and expertly trimming down the thorns. “I must say, Sir Barnham—I’m a little surprised. Three women at once must be a handful, even for someone of your… caliber.” She gave him another sidelong glance, lips pursed as she snipped errant leaves from the lower halves of the stems.

“I-I beg your pardon? I’m not— _ahem._ ” He cleared his throat, shaking his head quickly against her less-than-subtle accusations. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. ‘Tis platonic affection, not romantic conquest, that guides my actions.” _In two cases, at least._ “I intend to show my appreciation and goodwill to _all_ the important women in my life, rather than one alone.”

“Is that so.” She punctuated each dry word with the crackle of plastic, wrapping the roses carefully in clear film and handing them across the counter with a derisive sigh. “Will that be coin, or card?” Cradling the roses in his free arm, he dug deep into the pocket of his long coat for the correct change, tipping it into her expectant hand with a painstaking smile. She straightened her spine at once, a cheerful expression sliding effortlessly into place.

“Thank you very much for your kind patronage, sir!” she chirped in another voice entirely. “Happy Valentine’s Day, and please remember us for all your future floral needs!” Startled, he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the flower seller himself slip around the corner, his hands full of posies. He nodded politely at Barnham, the look dissolving into a warning glance at Kira before he vanished behind the partition that separated the storefront from the storage area.

“I… thank you,” he mumbled, seeing that Kira had immediately relapsed into apathy. Shaking his head, he carefully wrapped the flowers in his coat to protect them against the rough winds before shouldering his way through the door and into the biting cold.

Labryinthia’s streets were a gray, muddy mess of half-melted snow. Boot prints and hoofprints alike were outlined by the slushy ruts of cart wheels, creating slick patterns down the center of the cobbled paths. The sky above was a merciless cobalt, darkening clouds threatening the city with another dose of either sleet or snow by night’s end. Anyone unfortunate to be on the streets were, like him, bundled head to toe against the elements; thick woolen scarves and all manner of hats served to protect as best they could against the bitter ocean gales.

Barnham hurried towards the bakery, taking care that the flowers weren’t crushed in his grip as he fought the full brunt of the wind. Many shops in their part of the neighborhood were still open at this hour, but he could see few customers inside as he passed the frost-glazed windows. The bakery, by comparison, was closed in anticipation of the work that needed to be completed before the holiday. 

He waved through the window to Mrs. Eclaire as he passed beneath the overhang, heading for the side alley and climbing the narrow steps to the living quarters. It meant a few extra seconds in the cold, fumbling for his key with numbed fingers, but he couldn’t risk the others seeing his gifts.

The upstairs rooms were only slightly more comfortable than the temperature outside, being sheltered from the wind. No one had been up yet to light a fire in the small grate, and the portable heating units were switched off to save on electricity while they worked downstairs. Barnham quickly made his way to his bedroom, shrugging off his wraps and shivering as the cold air crept beneath his jumper. He filled his old pitcher with water and placed the roses inside to safely last the night.

His task completed, he retreated downstairs to the bakery’s welcoming warmth. The air was thick with the smell of cocoa and sugar, and a fire crackled cheerfully in the oven. The kitchen, glowing cozily in the waning light, seemed entirely separate from the world beyond its windows. Life as a baker’s apprentice was hard, and often more grueling than a day of garrison drills; that being said, evenings like this made the backbreaking work worthwhile.

Mrs. Eclaire sat at the table, her mitts stacked primly on the chair beside her. She frowned at a tablet in her hands, muttering to herself as she poked at the screen. The tablet was brand new, a gift from Espella who—in the name of progress—had recently created a website for the bakery. Her claims that the site would pay for itself had already come to fruition with the advent of a limited edition cake for Valentine’s Day. The idea was so popular that they’d had to close orders after three days, leaving them with a mountain of work and a mob of upset Labyrinthians who’d missed out.

The one caveat to Espella’s monetary scheme was, unfortunately, the baker herself. Mrs. Eclaire was not technologically savvy by any means; she did well to find her email inbox and reply to messages without assistance. Foreseeing problems, Espella had taken a spare notebook and written a small manual on how to maneuver the website. Mrs. Eclaire had it in front of her now, squinting down in the dim light and shaking her head in silent confusion as she attempted to mark filled orders and schedule delivery windows.

Espella was also hard at work, her plaits tied loosely behind her back as she worked her way down a long tray of cooled Valentine’s cakes. He had helped the others design them: a miniature Dutch chocolate cake, stuffed with sweet raspberry filling and covered in a dark chocolate ganache. She had finished the ganache and was now hard at work on the decorations, piping miniscule roses onto the center of each cake. In a bowl on one end of the counter, fresh raspberries had been cut and were waiting to be placed on top with dots of melted chocolate.

Barnham wasted no more time. He pulled his apron from the wall hook, slipping it over his head before turning to the water basin. The cold water stung his fingers as he scrubbed, but he persevered until his hands were clean enough to pass the most scrutinous of inspections. Joining Espella at the counter, he reached into a waiting box and pulled out a small mountain of unfolded packages. These were another one of Espella’s hare-brained ideas, something to do with branding; he’d honestly tuned her out after the first few minutes of explanation. They were custom cake boxes, and each had to be folded perfectly so that the lid slotted into the base without jostling the cake inside: that was all the explanation he needed.

“ _Ahem_.” Taking up the first box, his fingers blindly found the folds as he peered through his lashes at Espella. She steadfastly ignored him, her eyes locked firmly on her work. “Espella,” he tried again, “I was wondering if you might—”

“Busy,” she grunted, cursing under her breath as a glob of icing ruined the edge of one pale pink petal. 

“So I see. But once you’re through, would you perhaps be so kind as to aid—”

“The answer is no.” He frowned, lining the inside of the finished box with a piece of tissue paper before moving to the next.

“I haven’t finished my question.” Espella sighed, carefully balancing her piping bag on the edge of the tray. Wiping her hands on her smock, she turned to glare at him with a scowl that could have easily rivaled the High Inquisitor’s. Months of living beneath the same roof had shown him that, while normally complacent and sweet, she could be quite the spitfire when her temper flared. Even so, never before had he seen such an expression on her face—not even when she was being dragged to the Court once a fortnight under false charges. 

“You’ve been asking me the same thing all month. I’m not _stupid_ , you know.”

“O-of course you aren’t!” He laughed, nervous fingers nearly creasing the box in his hands. “’Tis only that I am not the best giver of gifts, and I merely thought… that is, if you had another suggestion for what I might offer Miss E—”

“No!” Espella slammed her palms on the counter, rattling the tray and knocking a few raspberries out of the bowl. Mrs. Eclaire looked up in alarm, her technological troubles forgotten for the moment. “No more suggestions!” She took a deep breath, whirling on him before he could come up with either an apology or a proper defense.

“I’ve _suggested_ jewelry. I’ve _suggested_ clothing. I’ve even _suggested_ a candlelit dinner. You’ve turned down every _suggestion_ I’ve had, Zacharias Barnham, so I _suggest_ you man up and find your own damn Valentine’s Day gift!”

“Espella!” Mrs. Eclaire scolded, her brow knitting as she looked between the two of them. “Language, please!”

“He’s been driving me insane all month, Aunt Patty! He’d test a saint’s patience!” She drew her shoulders back, voice dropping in a poor imitation of his own. “’Tis too _simple_ , ‘tis too _cheap_ , ‘twould not impress Miss Eve at _all_ ,” she droned, hands on her hips. “If you’re going to be this picky, you might as well choose something on your own.”

“I’ve no time left for choosing gifts!” he protested. “Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.”

“That’s not my fault!”

“Calm down, both of you!” Mrs. Eclaire ordered sharply. “I won’t have any arguments tonight.” Espella threw up her hands, stomping to the supply cupboard and bringing out a bowl of icing. She took out her frustrations on it, whipping the peaks into sad shape as she stirred at the speed of light. “You know she’s right, Zacharias,” she added ruefully. “A girl can only have so many ideas, and you’ve found fault in every last one of them.”

“Just make her something,” Espella grumbled. “I don’t know why you won’t.”

“Aye, and have a repeat of her birthday?” he snapped back. “One humiliation per holiday is more than enough for me, thank you.”

“Birthdays aren’t holidays.”

“I didn’t ask you—”

“That’s enough!” They broke apart guiltily, retreating to either side of the counter in sullen silence. The childish need to have the last word wasn’t worth risking Mrs. Eclaire’s wrath, and they both knew it. 

“Now, Zacharias,” Mrs. Eclaire continued, “I’ll admit that the éclair gift was a disaster waiting to happen. But you were so dead set on it; I knew that letting you fail was the only way to make you slow down and listen. Failure can teach anyone.”

“It’s not our fault that you’re such an overachiever,” Espella gloated. Mrs. Eclaire crossed her arms and, properly subdued, she obediently turned her attention back to her icing. 

“What Espella _means_ ,” she said, “is that you’ve been working in the bakery for over a year now. You’ve got a lot to learn, it’s true, but you’ve also learned a lot. I’m sure that Eve would be more than delighted to taste anything you saw fit to offer her.”

“I am… flattered, that you have such confidence in my abilities,” he replied slowly, staring down at the box in his hands. “Even so, I’m simply unable to believe that my own meager talent could reproduce anything of value, especially when there’s so much I’ve yet to master—”

“I wish you’d stop focusing on everything you can’t bake!” Espella put her hands on her hips, ignoring Mrs. Eclaire’s stern frown. “The only reason you haven’t settled on a gift is because you keep letting your expectations get in the way. I don’t know why you can’t see that. Eve will be happy _with anything you give her_. You could hand her a pebble you found on the street and she’d treasure it because it was from you.”

“These cakes are small, but they’ve just as much flavor as any of our larger ones,” Mrs. Eclaire offered helpfully. “When prepared with thoughtfulness and care, the simplest of gifts can hold great meaning.” Picking up the bowl of raspberries, she stood across from Espella and started to work on the opposite end of the cakes. “Now, no more squabbling. I’d like to have these finished before dawn.”

* * *

“A simpler gift….”

Barnham stood alone in the kitchen, listening carefully to the silence. He didn’t want either Espella or Mrs. Eclaire to find him down here, especially when he was supposed to be asleep himself. Rather than risk being caught by switching on the bright florescent lights, he instead lit one of the old gas lanterns.

He quietly stoked the oven’s fire back to life, turning over the options in his mind. Mrs. Eclaire was right—his work in the bakery had taught him far more than the little he’d known on Eve’s birthday. That being said, every recipe that came to mind seemed… lackluster. Arms crossed, he rolled his tongue in his cheek as he thought. Every recipe had a reasoning behind it, a history that stemmed from some unfulfilled need. What did he need Eve’s gift to _be_?

 _Quiet_ was the first word in his mind. It would need be something that didn’t call for heavy mixing or clattering pans that might wake the women upstairs. _Quick_ —something that could be made in a few hours, at most. _Delicious­_ —that was a given. He wanted a tempting flavor, a treat for the senses that would linger for hours in the back of her mind. Every time she thought about how good it tasted, it would remind her of him.

Pies needed time to set. Cakes were good, but there was a large margin of error involved; there was no salvaging a fallen cake. Bread was too commonplace, doughnuts too simplistic. Fancy desserts like mille-fille and croquembouche were far beyond his skillset, no matter how hard he wished otherwise. A tart might have worked, had there been any fruit left in the bakery. He could probably find a few apples down in the storage bins, but even if he could shape them into flowers, there was nothing to put them on. There weren’t any ready-made biscuits or—

 _Biscuits_! They seemed like too simple of a solution, but…. Barnham thought quickly, sifting through the supply cupboard’s contents as he wracked his brain for ideas. Biscuits could be made quickly, and any plainness could be easily hidden with icing and a little ingenuity.

True, he’d yet to decorate any on his own, but he knew how to make the icing and he had watched carefully as the others made simplistic designs. His mind was racing as he began to pull out the ingredients he would need. He could dye the icing to match her favorite shade of purple, and if he could find where Mrs. Eclaire kept the edible luster he could even make a gold border around the edges. 

“I’ll practice on the others,” he mused, feeling more confident now that he had a plan. He could make three personalized cookies from the same base, cutting down on time without sacrificing either quality or individual preference. It wouldn’t do to make three identical copies of the same biscuit, of course. He knew everyone’s favorite flavors, and it was in the spirit of the holiday to incorporate them into his gifts. Mrs. Eclaire and Espella had taken him into their home and made him part of the family; the best way to show his appreciation was to prove his mettle as a baker.

Espella’s would be the easiest—she loved any sweets that incorporated her homemade jams. He mixed up the dough, shaping the biscuit in his mind’s eye: a linzer heart, dusted with a fine sprinkling of sugar and filled with cherry jam. Sweetness surrounding a tart center… a mirror image of the girl herself.

Mrs. Eclaire, on the other hand, preferred something more versatile. He knew that her favorite desserts worked just as well with black coffee as they did with tea, allowing her to enjoy them whenever she pleased. Another heart would tie the theme together, but this would be a plain, serviceable vanilla. Icing would serve to embellish the finer details, leaving him with a biscuit that, for all it’s plain appearance, would leave anyone who tasted it with a smile. 

As for Eve…. He hesitated, hands hovering over the dough. Hers was a complex flavor, toeing the line between bitter and sweet. The outer layer would be tough, beautifully decorated with all manner of luxurious ornaments, and yet the inside would remain warm and soft. Could he trust himself to do her justice? _I must_ , he insisted, taking the dough that was left and mixing it with cocoa. The biscuit itself would represent the High Inquisitor, with all the bitterness of dark chocolate. In comparison, the icing would hold all of Lady Belduke’s gentle sweetness. With every bite, she would taste her true self in their coalescence. 

As the midnight bell tolled, he wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down with unguarded pride at his creations. Three heart-shaped biscuits, each easily the size of his palm, sat in a neat row on the bakery’s smallest tray. The left sparkled with sugar in the lamplight, a window cut out of the top layer to show the cherry flavor within. The right was glazed with icing the color of Mrs. Eclaire’s favorite green dress; an admittedly lopsided sunflower was painted with vibrant yellow strokes at the very center. And in the middle, his magnum opus: a chocolate heart with a simple pattern of purple roses, swirled onto a deep red background. The intricate border, as well as the sunflower’s petals, had been brushed with gold luster.

He packed each in its own container, nestled safely in layers of tissue paper. With a sigh of relief, he crept back upstairs to his own room and placed them beside the roses on his bedside table. There were only a few hours until dawn; he would have to rise early if he wanted to give Eve her gift before helping with the cake deliveries. But the loss of sleep would be more than worth it, if she would only grace him with one of her beautiful smiles….

* * *

As he’d predicted, a new layer of snow had fallen over the island by Valentine’s morn. It crunched beneath his boots as he jogged past the gate and through the forest. Snow hung in clumps from the evergreen boughs above his head, glimpses of white crystalline fields visible between the trees. The temperature wasn’t low enough to freeze the lake; an early morning breeze churned the dark water into waves that disappeared into the perpetual mist surrounding the manor.

Barnham had slipped and slid over the forest paths, the thin snow crumbling away to show a fine layer of ice beneath. Thankfully, someone—an undergardener, perhaps—had taken pains to salt and sand the bridges leading up to Eve’s manor. He crossed without a problem, following the narrow, winding path past the stable and up to her door. The landscape seemed even more eerie during the long winters months, twisted limbs of leafless trees making odd shapes in the fog; without the red blossoms that spring and summer brought, the grass poking out of the snowdrifts looked sad and gray.

He rang the doorbell, listening with growing trepidation as the last echoes disappeared somewhere deep inside the manor. Snow usually made sounds louder, but today it only highlighted the silence that hung like mist over the Belduke lands. It only added to his nervousness as he waited, clutching the gifts tightly in his gloved hands.

 _What am I meant to say?_ He had only visited Eve’s home two or three times, and always in her company. The servants did not see fit to speak to him—they generally gave him a wide berth when in their lady’s presence—and he was sure they’d not yet forgotten his dramatic chandelier “trick” in the Great Witch’s throne room. Eve certainly made sure that _he_ didn’t forget it, either. Her teasing smile spoke more than words ever could whenever she recounted the servants’ horror upon seeing a priceless Belduke heirloom laying smashed on the stained carpet.

Before he had time to ponder the subject further, the great doors opened and he found himself face to face—in theory, at least—with a stately woman in black. Her thin brows arched in silent query as she looked up at him, her mouth twisted in an expression he was more used to seeing on Ms. Primstone.

“May I help you?” she finally asked, when several moments had passed without a word being spoken between them. He swallowed thickly, offering a shaky smile as he tried to keep from brandishing the gifts in his hands. A small, cowardly part of him wanted to hand her the gifts and ask that they be delivered to Eve in his stead, but _surely_ he was more of a man than that….

“I am… here to see… Miss Eve,” he managed, wincing at how his voice shook with nerves. The woman didn’t reply, adjusting her spectacles on her nose. “L-Lady Belduke?” Her shrewd eyes looked him over once more, pursed lips tightening further at the state of his snow-caked boots.

“Are you?” she replied drolly. Belatedly, he realized that it was a silly, obvious statement. _Of course_ he was coming to see her. Why else would he be at her front door? If he’d wanted anyone else, he would have known to knock on the servant’s entrance instead. “Most visitors,” she added, “see fit to offer their name.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he stammered, a hot blush steaming on his cheeks in the cold air. _Foolish, stupid_ — “I am Si— I am Zacharias Barnham, ex-Inquisitor and current… baker.”

“Is this a scheduled visit, Mr. Barnham?” She was doing this on purpose now; there was a twinkle in the old woman’s eye, barely hidden by her otherwise impassive expression. Her eyes fell to the rose in his hand, lingering there for a moment. “I see,” she mused, though he’d not been able to say anything in his defense. “I suppose I can’t leave you out here on the doorstep.” She took a step back, keeping the hem of her long skirts out of the snow. “As threadbare as that coat is, you’re apt to freeze before breakfast.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well? Are you coming in, or aren’t you?” The woman sighed. “I don’t have all day, you know.” He quickly crossed the threshold before she changed her mind, dripping in the foyer as she shut the door behind him. “Heaven sakes, child— you’re not paid to sleep on your feet.” He turned around guiltily, ready to offer another apology, only to see her prodding along a bleary lad no older than some of the garrison’s squires.

“Hand Taran your boots and wraps,” she ordered, standing regally at the foot of a grand staircase. He obeyed meekly, silently hoping there were no holes in his socks as he slowly piled his outer layer into the yawning Taran’s waiting hands. “Come along, then. You may wait for Lady Belduke in the receiving room.” 

The receiving room turned out to be what he would call a parlour, although he didn’t dare say the thought aloud as he was ushered inside. A fire was already blazing in the hearth, the thick window curtains pulled back to show a picturesque view of the lake. Portraits of past Beldukes looked down at the room, including a very small likeness of Eve who could have been no older than thirteen or fourteen. He remembered the gray silk dress she wore from the few social functions he’d been forced to attend as a page, learning the formal manners he would need as a future knight.

Left alone, he perched gingerly on the edge of an armchair, hands in his lap. Even the embroidered cushions that adorned the cabriole sofas looked too expensive to touch; he was afraid to look at them too long, lest he somehow mar them and be forced to pay the expense from his own pocket. A clock on the mantle caught his eye, ticking softly as its hand showed a quarter to eight. Mrs. Eclaire and Espella would be rising now, if they hadn’t already. He’d left their gifts at their places at the table, where they would be sure to find them when they moved downstairs. Had they discovered them already?

“I’m so sorry if you’ve been waiting long, Zacharias.” The door opened and Eve swept in, her unbound hair fluttering around her shoulders as she looked around the room. He stood abruptly, heart pounding as he clutched the gifts to his chest. “With Espella’s talk of cakes, I didn’t expect to see… you….” Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the rose, lips parting wordlessly before she bit them closed.

It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t planned for this part: the actual gift-giving. His mind had jumped from making the gift to her enjoyment of it, skipping everything in-between. He hadn’t practiced what to say, where to stay, how to act! The words seemed to lodge themselves behind the lump in his throat as they locked eyes.

 _Happy Valentine’s Day. That’s all you have to say, fool!_ He felt as helpless as he had on her birthday, standing an hour for the chance to offer her a lumpy éclair. That mortifying ordeal had only been tempered by her smile and—as unnecessary as it was—her gratitude. But now there were no friends to interrupt them, no teasing words to hurry him along. He had to manage _something_ ; the fear of rejection could not be his strongest enemy! 

Surely he could manage something as short and sweet as “ _Miss Eve, please accept this humble gift, even if you do not accept me”,_ or “ _I think I’m in love with you, don’t try to stop me if I attempt to drown myself in the lake after this”,_ or even “ _For the love of the gods, please have some mercy on your poor baker”_ ….

“For… you,” he croaked, thrusting both gifts at her in a helpless gesture of defeat. She stared with equal helplessness, wringing her hands as she fidgeted in place.

“F-for me?” she repeated, sounding as breathless as he felt.

“Mmm.” Language was clearly not on his side this morning. He somehow managed to unstick his feet from the rug, taking one step forward, and then another, until he stood in front of her. Gently he pressed the gifts into her hands, a jolt running through him as their fingers brushed around the rose. He locked his trembling fingers together behind his back, watching as she sniffed the rose appreciatively.

“I… I like roses.”

“Good.” Why was it so hard to breathe? “I’m glad.” Eve carefully placed the rose on the mantle before turning her attention to the box, attempting to untie the bow that held its lid in place. He waited with bated breath, pulse ringing loudly in his ears as he watched her lift the lid and fold back the creamy tissue paper.

“It’s—oh!” Her eyes lit up in clear wonder, a pleased smile on her lips as she ran one finger along the edge of the braided gold trim. He noted in satisfaction that his coloring had not been amiss; the tiny rose swirls were the exact shade of the curls cascading down her back. “I had no idea the bakery even sold such beautiful treats.”

“We don’t.” He cleared his throat, attempting to manage something better than a mouthful of gravel. “I made it.”

“You… you made this? For me?”

“Yes. I am much improved since the day of your birth, am I not?” Heavens help him, now he was _bragging_. “It tastes like you.” Her smile faded immediately. “W-wait, that’s not right. I meant that ‘tis supposed to be you—”

“What?”

“T-the flavoring!” First he had been unable to speak at all; now he wished only to stop, and found himself unable to do so. “I made it while thinking of you, ‘tis bitter and sweet both—not that I think you to be bitter! That could not be farther from the truth, I merely… I meant it to be in your likeness, with the red and… and your color and….” He ran a hand through his hair, biting his tongue until he tasted blood in an effort to stop the prattle from pouring forth.

“You were thinking of me….” She gently placed the biscuit back into its tissue paper nest, her cheeks dusted a sweet shade of pink. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You needn’t say anything, Miss Eve.” He was thinking on his feet now—no, that was inaccurate. He wasn’t _thinking_ at all, the words falling from his lips faster than he could register. “But if you must say something, please… please say that you will accompany me Sunday next.” _Where did that come from?!_ Of all the things to say! How could he be so brazen, so… so _presumptuous_ —

“I will.” _Huh?_

“I have no plans for Sunday, so I would be… very happy to accompany you.” **_Huh_** _?!_

“I, um… good! Good.” He had no real destination in mind, but that left him a week to plan. Perhaps Espella’s suggestion of a nice dinner would come in handy after all. If he could scrounge up the coin—ask Mrs. Eclaire for an advance on his wages—he could afford that new upper end restaurant on North Parade Avenue….

“Then it’s settled.” Her cheeks were more red than pink now, her eyes locked firmly on the buttons of his shirt. “We can discuss the finer details later in the week.” Was this a date, or a business proposition? The clock on the mantle chimed the hour, startling them both. “W-would you like to stay for breakfast?”

“I cannot, I’m afraid.” He smiled regretfully. “There are deliveries to make, and I have a duty to see them fulfilled before day’s end.”

“Oh… of course.” They stood awkwardly before the fire, looking everywhere but at one another. “You should probably go, then. I don’t want you to get into any trouble because of me.” 

“Right.” Her fingers were dancing again, twining around each other as she stared into the fireplace. Acting once more on impulse, he took her hand in his own. Despite being so close to the hearth, her fingers were cold. He bowed pressed his lips gallantly to the back of her palm, heart skipping a beat at the sound of her quiet gasp.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Miss Eve.”

* * *

 _That went well, all things considered_. He walked quickly along the path, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat and lapels turned up against the worst of the wind. She clearly enjoyed her gift, even she hadn’t grasped the full meaning of his choice, and now he had a date for next weekend. The thought sent his heart racing, a warmth coursing through him that had little to do with his fast pace. 

Anything was possible now, was it not? She agreed to one date, so why not two? Three? How many dates did it take before he could call her his girlfriend? Would she _want_ him to call her that? Did he want her to—yes, he definitely wanted to hear her say “my boyfriend”. Was it acceptable to hug a woman on the first date? Would she think him too forward if he held her hand? What if—

“Wait! Zack!” It was the _Zack_ that stunned him; Eve had never called him by that name before. He turned just in time to see her slip on a patch of ice, stumbling and nearly sliding into his chest before skidding to a stop on the snowy path. Beneath her woolen beret, her face was red from both exertion and embarrassment. He held out a hand to steady her as she caught her breath, mind awhirl to imagine what could have sent her into the cold after him.

Someone had fallen ill, and she needed him to run for Jean. She wanted to place an order at the bakery. She had a message for Espella she wanted him to relay. She’d changed her mind about Sunday, she didn’t want to date him after all—

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his own breath short as his thoughts ran rampant. “Is something wrong? What—” She reached up without a word and took his face in both hands, dragging him down to press her lips to his. Her palms were only a few degrees warmer than the air around him, but her cheeks seemed to blaze as she kissed him. Before he could begin to understand what was happening, she let go. He staggered back a step, heart dropping like a stone to sit somewhere in his lower stomach.

“Thank you,” she panted, her breath steaming in the air between them. “I forgot to say it earlier.” _Thank you? For what?_ He gaped at her, brain unresponsive and thoughts stalling as he began to process what had just happened. It was only when she moved away, head dipping self-consciously, that he sprang to life with a jolt.

“Thanks is not necessary!” His own face began to burn, everything from his roots down tingling in a way that was not wholly unpleasant. “Your smile was more than enough thanks for me. But,” he added quickly, seeing her head sink further, “should you be willing t-to… to _thank_ me again… ‘twould be most welcome.”

“I-I might see fit to thank you again… on Sunday next.” She took a step back, eyes lifting to meet his as she smiled shyly. “If it’s alright with you, that is.” He laughed, the sound part nervous energy and part true delight.

“I shall look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone was able to enjoy their Valentine's Day!


End file.
